Chapter One: The Rattlin' Bog
Sixteen gazed up at the ceiling, brooding. He was sitting outside an Irish bar somewhere in Massachusetts, possibly trying to cure a sudden shiver of homesickness.
But for some reason, something was putting him off his alcohol.
He couldn't explain it. Maybe something had finally gotten to him. He felt ashamed, and had ended up merely sat at the bar, ashen and flinching at all the drunken singing going on in the background. This was the good old Irish way. His trademark. His bloody
legacy.
He couldn't take it any more. Storming out, he started pushing past all the drunken people that were attempting to walk. They were screaming "The Rattlin' Bog" into the night.
That was the absolute last bloody straw. Plus, all this irrational Angsty!Sixteen was getting a bit tiring.
He started walking. Where to, he didn't know. Irish folk music began to play inside his head. As a soundtrack to his unknown mission. Usually he'd ask the voices in his head to
quiet down that racket, but this time he didn't. A proud Irishman.
* * *
At last, Sixteen came across the town Woburn. The name seemed to ring a dim bell, so he thought, maybe he ought to stop and rest. It felt like he'd been walking for two days straight.
He shook his head angrily in response to his internal chatter. He was starting to sound like Shelly, the crazy magee.
Sixteen picked a house at random, and knocked. He hitched his best "Help-me-I'm-a-helpless-angsty-dude" facial expression as the door creaked open.
"Yes?" A croaky woman's voice asked.
"Can I please use your facilities?" Sixteen begged, hoping to throw in long words to impress.
The woman peeked out from behind her door and gave him a long, long, look.
"You're Irish. We hate Irish. You're drunken and stupid and like too much sheep. Go away."
The lightbulb in Sixteen did more than glow dimly, it exploded in a shower of sparks. He pushed past the woman, who looked back at him indignantly and grabbed the phone to call the police. Crashing into the nearest room, a terrible sight met him.
A glint of steel . . . immobolised legs . . . a hi-def computer monitor displaying the pinstriped background . . . slow fingers really to correct people and make unnecessary judgements . . . "TRIANGLE EYES?!"
The girl swung her armchair around.
"I think you're swell, Sixteen." she beamed.
Sixteen stopped short. "Are you high? For the first time ever? POST ON 667!"
"I can't seem to insult. It was my trademark. My
legacy."
And at once, Sixteen recognised a kindred spirit. She sat there beaming, obviously not herself . . . and more beautiful than he could've imagined. She was so lovely and kind.
"STFU TRAGEDY" he bellowed, and leapt across the room to embrace Triangle Eyes.